Once upon a dream
by ryoku1
Summary: England finds himself in a dream that means far to much to be coincidence.


France watched as the small nation slept, blissfully dead to the world. The workings of a smile played on the elder's lips, but it was a smile he would not have allowed if young England had been awake.

The consistency of their brief engagement had been wrought with complexity and uncertainty. The child fought him at every turn, it might have been a softer more passive form of resistance – refusing to learn even the simplest of words in French was grating on the Frenchman's patience like something horrid - but it was a situation France thought himself well able to handle, if even for a short time.

The silent utterances of deceit when the elder was not looking, the grievances that radiated from the young child that remained unvoiced, the fact that England would follow his orders – was a hard worker, a strong fighter and probably always would be – but France was never certain if he could someday truly bring England to heal under his leadership. This child had the head of a bull and the spine of a snake, both admirable traits in their own right, but which made for something quite undesirable in a ward.

He continued to watch the child slumber peacefully, taking in the small figure and knowing that such calm was never meant to last. The sight was really quite tragic, in sleep the youth was quite a joy to be around. Something that only lasted till those green eyes delicately fluttered open. It was about the only delicate thing France could ever remember young England ever doing. France was well aware that England would grow and morph into something more than this tiny child afraid to admit defeat; subservient, yet more than willing to raise that ever lit flame of rebellion if it so presented itself.

France shifted his eyes away from the child and to the waning light as it quickly fled the room. A large yawn escaped his lips and blue eyes blinked. Feeling the unease of the approaching night and the inevitability of the situation France decided there was nothing for it. Such thoughts were wasted in the most opportune of times, let alone in the hour of the sinking sun.

Taking the greatest of care France shifted the child from his lap into his arms, and brought his own body to rest next to the young nation. England snuggled closer to him ever so hesitantly and France couldn't be sure if the child was simply attracted to a source of warmth as he slept, or pretending to sleep and seeking some form of companionship.

It didn't much matter, but the later returned the small smile to the Frenchman's lips, so that was the one he chose to believe. His arms pulled the child closer and England seemed to respond to the movement, shifting his head to rest in the crook of France's neck. It wasn't exactly comfortable – somehow France didn't think they fit together just yet, perhaps in the future, but not now – but at the same time was not unwelcome.

As the last few moments of light faded into an all encompassing moonless night sure to be filled with cold and rain, France took some comfort in the small body held securely to his chest.

------

England was in a field of gold.

It was something strange – foreign, but beautiful. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky and the vibrant field glistened with every blade's soft shudder. The meadows of England shone like emeralds: inviting to the eye, but cold wet and hard to the touch. This expanse of life was inviting, warm, soft and beautiful. He fancied himself lounging in the scenery, fully contented with only the sun and sky as his company. The child's mind shifted to a time when he was able to just laze about on an open field of green, when his meadows had seemed more welcoming.

Back to a simple time, only it had never been simple; a few less things to occupy his worry, but life had never been simple.

The thought was like a switch, apprehension took hold of England and he forced himself away from the landscapes splendor. He looked around, worried that someone or something might be there, hiding in wait. When nothing brought itself to his attention, England allowed himself to calm.

He shut his eyes and turned up his face, allowing the sun to wash over his features. The blaze pierced his closed lids but England gave it no mind and simply allowed himself to bask in the warmth. England was well accustomed to being cold and wet, but the warmth spreading through him was a welcomed change.

A sudden rustling of the meadow snapped the child to attention. He knew the difference of a soft wind whistling through an unattended prairie and the cracking of something alive fumbling softly, trampling grass in its wake. His eyes focused on the spot from which the noise had come, but the large grass kept the intruder hidden.

Large brows furrowed and a look of livid paranoia came to the child's green eyes. The trespasser did not move again but England knew the figure was watching, waiting for the right moment to strike. Ever so slowly the child raised his hand to reach the bow he always kept at his side. But it wasn't there.

Alarms flared in the child's mind in rapid succession. No longer was this place a warm paradise or even a beautiful meadow. This was uncharted territory; a place England did not know, could not use, and was now defenseless in. His weapon – his only hope of survival – was gone, and in the face of an adversary England had no time to make another.

A part of him panicked, the small inner child cried and wailed and wept that he was going to die here in this deceptive trap; this beautiful hell. But England shoved that inner voice into a corner and wrung his hands around its neck till its insufferable mouth closed. He refused to die here, no matter how small, alone, scared, or defenseless he truly was.

His eyes searched with a primal instinct that had served England well a million times before. For a rock to bash in someone's face, a stick to shove into an uncovered eye, something, anything. But there was nothing. His teeth would have to do.

England waited -tense and ready for a struggle- but the figure that eventually emerged was not what young England had anticipated. A small boy (England did not register that the other child was actually a little bigger than him) with sun kissed hair and azure eyes emerged. Hostile green and curious blue met and clashed.

England looked ready to spring at any moment, but something kept him from the act, a battle raging in his head. It was someone that looked of his own age! England had never fought another child this young. He'd killed them - murdered human children in cold blood and not lost a wink of sleep because of it – but he had never fought one, for murder was much different from a fight. Most children shrank in terror and screamed - some struggled - but it could never have been a fight; only a more painful death.

This child looked kind, and England knew that all children were not like himself; not raised to maim and decapitate. Maybe this other child just wanted someone to stay with him, conceivably just wanted a friend.

As soon as the thought graced England's mind he saw himself in that boy's image; alone in a beautiful field of nothing, seeking companionship and warmth that such a vibrant sun could not provide - and England knew he would not be able to harm this child. He didn't have a choice any more, and the inner child of war and strife that the world often viewed screamed and raged and broke things. But that inner child's door was now locked.

The blue eyed boy looked a little hesitant, but as England's form loosened ever so slightly the other child slowly moved closer. He moved until they were close enough for England to see his own reflection in those clear blue pools.

England still felt tense, wary. But those feelings evaporated in the presence of the other child's growing smile; so affectionate and excited that it left England feeling overwhelmed and scared - his own emotions repressed and stagnant in comparison.

The thought hit him with about the same amount of force as a tilde wave; England didn't fit this picture. On a canvas a great painter had placed a deceitful rogue next to a merciful prince with all intent they work with one another to make the painting something meaningful, to shape a fanciful tale to last the ages.

Only they couldn't. The whole idea was a cruel joke, they were too different, didn't fit. England didn't fit this image of beauty and grace and warmth. His home was the island. His cold wet little island where his siblings wanted to rip him asunder and spill his insides and that France would eventually abandon just like everyone else.

The thought made him feel sick, a pit that would never be filled no matter how many times he tossed something meaningful to its dark dank depths.

England hesitantly took a step backward as if the other child was to warm to touch – would burn him if he got to close. But those vibrant blue eyes seemed to have already sized him up, and those chubby hands quickly moved to grasp England's fists.

On instinct England brought them swiftly behind him and away from the other child's grasp. Blue eyes clouded in confusion and a small pout played upon the child's lips before something playful and devious ignited and the blue eyed boy dove around England to try and grasp his hands. Again England dodged, moving so that he was again facing the other child a short distance away with his hands securely hidden behind his back.

The other child did not seem perturbed and quickly tried again on the opposite side, this time more forceful then the first. England easily dodged again.

Blue eyes locked with green as if to appraise the smaller boy. England became more tense at the action, he felt as if something was about to take place that should concern him. But young England didn't have the chance to act upon his instinct, for one second the blue eyed boy was gazing at the other child and the next England was being playfully tackled to the ground. Instinct took over and England found himself kicking, screaming, and punching as panic set in. But that inner child of chaos and strife was not there, his door was still locked, so England flailed wildly but never seemed to connect to anything meaningful.

The other child giggled loudly at the failed resistance and quickly set to work running his chubby little fingers all over England's midsection in a most uncomfortable way. Teasing and playing in a fashion that made every inch of touched skin squirm and fidget uncontrollably. At the action a shrill yelp escaped England's lips and he scrambled to get away, but his body refused to do anything meaningful under the assault. Just flail uncontrollably; it was a horribly debilitating attack and though England tried his best to prolong the inevitable, he found himself not able to hold back his laughter. It was a wheezing, coughing, giggling, hiccupping mess that the young child had never quite experienced before.

In the haze that surrounded him, England heard that crystal laughter from the other child and he realized that though this was an exceptional form of torture, he was in no pain. Maybe, just maybe, this was play?

Then finally, as if a storm had passed, those skilled fingers stopped. England was left – spread eagle - heaving from the event. Vibrant laughter surrounded him as the blue eyed boy took a slightly devilish pleasure in the way that England looked so exhausted, and England came to realize that he had been right. This was a form of play.

A devious look came to his green eyes, and in a matter of moments England had reversed their previous roles and was now straddling the other child. Then the teasing began, and England struggled to elicit the same response from his new playmate. England focused his assault on the same section his attacker had used on him, close to the midriff. But his fingers just seemed to poke and prod, not to feather over the skin so lightly and sweet.

Within a few moments the blue eyed boy had taken the initiative, and England found his movement system flawed as all control left him. The larger boy had shifted their position again, and England was again giggling and flailing as a wide smile came to his lips.

Once again, England was left breathless as the other child stopped his assault. But the young green eyed child was not perturbed and attempted yet again, throwing himself onto the other child. This time England tried a different approach, going straight for the upper body. A few soft giggles emitted from the blue eyed child and England decided that he was on the right track. His hands started to move, searching for that sweet spot – and he was not disappointed.

The second a finger graced the side of the ribs underneath the armpits the other child yelped and started to squirm uncontrollably. A smile came to England's face and he centered his assault only on that spot. The response was instantaneous: wheezing, gasping, boundless laughter, and unparalleled struggle.

The thought that came to mind was not of dominance. Not of forcing the other child into submission as England might have thought it to be, but of unimaginable pleasure simply for the sake of it – and England thought that this moment, out all his life was his happiest.

When the other child hit him strongly in the gut and sent him flying, England didn't even bat an eye. He jumped to his feet and continued the assault anew, and they rose and twirled around one another in the bright sunshine, laughing and giggling.

After what seemed like a lifetime of enjoyment England found himself sprawled on that soft golden patch of heaven working harder than ever to simply breathe. His new friend lay beside him, both facing the reddening sky as the sun sank lower towards the horizon. Hands tightly clasped together, to stand testament to their blossoming friendship.

Blue met green and England swam in the emotions those clear pools conveyed; companionship, trust, love. And it made England want to cry. Oh how he wanted this reality, for someone as kind sweet and beautiful as this child to truly love him, to be his friend.

England shifted his position to a sitting one, still strongly grasping the other child's hand, and faced the blue eyed boy. Once the other moved to do the same, England took his free hand and grasped the child's other fist. England brought both hands to his face and softly kissed one and then the other hand before lovingly gazing into those clear pools once again. It was an unsaid promise: of loyalty, compassion and love.

Blue eyes sparkled and that beautiful smile came to his face. Then the blue eyed child was moving to do the same, taking England's hands in his own and moving to kiss them.

Soft lips graced England's hands, and the world shattered into a million pieces.

England was alone.

There was no meadow of gold, no cloudless sky, no bright sun's warmth, and no boy with sun kissed hair and azure eyes. There was only a cold dark barren night, a dead wasteland where nothing wanted to grow and where even the moon refused to keep the small child company.

Helplessness flooded England, and that small inner child cried and wept and sobbed. England wrapped his small arms around himself and fell to his knees, because he was that small inner child and he was crying and weeping and sobbing. He had been taunted with all he'd ever wanted only to have it gone within an instant, because the truth was clear: nothing lasts. No one will stay.

England brought his tiny hands to his face trying to shove away the tears, covering his eyes so they would stop, but they wouldn't.

He saw his siblings, how they had once upon a time loved each other, only for their love to twist and weave into hatred the like of which England had never wanted. He pictured Rome, strong, brave and smart, abandoning one of many useless children to blood and fire and filth. He saw Alfred, his great king being chased from his throne as Denmark sang and drank and killed. He saw France, marvelous beautiful, cultured France, who only wanted him because he felt entitled. And finally he saw that child, that god sent child so capable of making life worth something more than blood and grime; gone, without even a good-bye.

Now England was alone, because he'd always been alone. And oh how that hurt, how he wanted to rip out his heart and never have to deal with these horrid emotions ever again. How he wanted to beat and maim and devastate that small weeping inner child that knew every ache of his soul. To wipe that horrible thing stained in his image off the face of the earth so that it could never remind him of what he would never have.

But he couldn't. No matter how many times he killed it: it would always come back stronger, with every welt wound and scar. A hideous thing to behold, the stuff of nightmares: a wailing specter that should not have been able to stand, let alone torment him so utterly.

And the child cried. There was nothing and no one and it hurt all the more.

As England wallowed in self misery, something far away sparkled and shone. It caught England's eye and he turned his face toward it, his neck arching to view the dark night sky. There, looking down at him was a star; a bright, beautiful star so far out of reach that England didn't even entertain the thought of grasping for it.

Then the sky seemed to shift as he gazed upon it, and one by one stars started to appear, as if they had been waiting for him to notice them. When the spectacle had finished thirteen stars sat together in a perfect circle. So close together but so far away from him. England knew those stars were mocking him.

He wondered if they were happy together, were silently antagonizing him as they relished in their shared company while he languished in his solitude. Just close enough to keep him company and to always return, but never enough to take away the pain; never a shoulder to cry on and never an ear to whisper secrets too.

The child realized that everything would be like those stars; too distant to care and too close to be disregarded.

And England knew no more.

-----

England woke with a start, his small frame covered in a cold sweat and his breathing heavy. The small child forced himself to calm, breathing slowly and trying to concentrate on a few French words he hadn't yet mastered. It wasn't important and he would never confirm his growing mastery of the language – France already had a large enough head – but it was something that would required his attention; a process meant to divert his thoughts from dreams of which he could not remember, but which had unquestionably terrified him.

Once he found himself breathing easier and feeling more at home in his own skin, England moved from his resting place. He quickly shoved France's arm off of him, scurried to the window and watched as the sun stared to rise. Small streams of light escaped the horizon and made his beautiful emerald fields glisten and shine with thick morning dew.

England knelt and said his morning prayers thanking God for all he had been graced with. Then he hurried off to start the day's work; the blurred image of a young blue eyed child and a circle of stars imprinting itself into his subconscious.

-----

"What is your name child?"

"…America…"

"That's not what I meant. A proper name for a young boy: something common and easy to say. I can't very well call you America in front of your own people. They'll think us mad, and that simply will not do. So, do you have a human name young America?"

"How about Arthur?"

"You are such a silly child, you can't just take my name. A human name is something that's given to you. You can't just take it."

"Oh…can I have the name Arthur then? Will you give it to me?"

"Hm, no little America. I will not give it to you, but I will give you one of your own, so you can grow up as whoever you want to be. To be the person you chose, and not to grow up in my shadow."

"But I want to be like you when I grow up! I want to be big and strong, and fight bad guys like France and Spain and save people! They're big and scary and mean, not like you. Don't give me their names!"

"T-that right! They are big and scary! That's why you have to make sure you stay well away from them, just like I've taught you!"

"I remember! If they ever show up and you aren't here I'm suppose to bring out the gunpowder and torches, just like you've taught me!"

"Right, blast them straight back to Europe where they belong. Then I'll give them a good walloping!"

"Boom, boom, back to Europe!"

"But that doesn't solve our initial dilemma."

"…whats a dile ema?"

"Dilemma, America, pronounce it properly. And it's a problem."

"Like how France and Spain are a problem? Dile ema France and Spain?"

"Dilemma, dil-em-ma. Not two separate words, just one with three beats. Now say it."

"Dile-"

"No"

"Dil-em-ma"

"Brilliant! And its proper use in a sentence is either "This is quite a dilemma" or, "This is our dilemma." Make sure you use it correctly and practice saying in properly."

"Dil-em-ma, dile-emma, dole-emma."

"How about Alfred?"

"Who's Alfred? Is he a dile-emma?"

"Say it pr- Oh bugger it. No, Alfred is not a dil-em-ma!"

"Bugger, bugger, bugger! Bugger it!"

"Stop that! I meant your name."

"Bugger?"

"No, Alfred. I'm going to name you Alfred."

"Oh….I like Arthur better….Or bugger."

"Hmn, let us hope I never call you bugger in all honestly."

"Why not? Whats wrong with bugger? Bugger bugger bugger bugger! I like bugger! Bugger it, bugger that, bugger me, bugger you!"

"Stop that this instant! You can't go around calling people buggers all the time. It isn't a proper thing to say!"

"Just like dile-ema?"

"No- yes. Just like dile-ema. It's a bad thing to say."

"Then why'd you say it?"

"Because the King said I could."

"Oh….can the King say that I can say it?"

"No."

"Oh….so what's my name again?"

"Alfred"

"It really can't be Arth-"

"No it cannot."

"…..Say it again?"

"Alfred?"

"Ya, I like it when you say it."

"Hm, well I'll be saying it quite a lot now, Alfred."

-----

Notes:

-Alfred the Great was one of England's most prominent kings, and successfully fought back the Viking hordes in the 800's. He was driven out by Vikings later on in his life, but rallied the people and fought to reclaim England with great success. He also brought a lot of the cultural and intellectual elements back to the Isle. I've always had this idea that America was named after him.


End file.
